


The Sinking Man

by yellowcottondresses



Category: Nashville (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Created Family, Friendship, Gen, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Suicide Attempt, Survival, The family you choose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-10
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:43:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yellowcottondresses/pseuds/yellowcottondresses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a long, hard year in Nashville that nearly destroyed them, four friends take shelter in a cabin by the edge of the world, and try to start moving on. ONESHOT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sinking Man

**Author’s Note: Blame it on the plot bunnies. And too many Season 1 rewatches. And my incongruous love for one Will Lexington. And my equally inexplicable need to see him and Scarlett be the most fabulous blonde besties duo ever.**

**To anyone who has read my other story, “North Star”: It’s a planned two-shot, with the possibility of a three-shot. So it’s not over yet. I’ve had the second part in the works for a while, but I’ve been busy and sick lately, so it’s held up the writing more than I expected. There IS more to the story, I promise.**

**I have a Twitter: AlbatrossTam14**

**I have a Tumblr: welldeservedobscurity**

**I don’t own Nashville, or anything affiliated.**

**_“Cold dark sea/Wrapping its arms around me/Pulling me down to the deep/All eyes on me”_ **

**_\- “The Sinking Man”, Of Monsters & Men_ **

**I.**

He’s sinking.

The sand underneath him shifts, and the current sweeps his footsteps away. The tide comes in, rushing around his ankles, and the ground pulls as it goes back out. Where he stands, he can sink right off the end of the earth.

But it feels good, to just be able to stand here.

What’s that one Zac Brown song he loves so much? _Got my toes in the water, ass in the sand, not a worry in the world, a cold beer in my hand, life is good today…_

Life IS good today. Or at least, for the meantime. It’s been a couple of good days, all in a row, and it’s been nice to have that. He’s anchored in the cold, dark foam of the Atlantic, and it’s pulling him down but not sweeping him under, because he can tilt his head back and feel the Alabama sun on his face.

They were thinking about going somewhere more exotic, farther away than a ragtag group of kids from the country had ever been. Gunnar suggested Cancun, Zoey the Bahamas. Scarlett had wanted to go to California, to which Zoey argued that she needed to think big, already – she was a genuine CMA nominee, and might as well act like she deserved it.

Scarlett had blushed, mumbled something about just wanting to do something a little more budget-friendly, and also something about not actually _winning_ yet, you know Juliette Barnes had that huge single that came out last year, and she was going against legends like Rayna James and Martina McBride, plus Taylor-freaking-Swift to really cap it all off, a lot of noise around town about who would win, and blah blah blah, they had all shut her down before she could get much further, because if she wasn’t going to let herself get excited about her this, they were going to damn well do it for her.

It was Gunnar who finally suggested this place. This little house on the edge of the world, washed up on the bleached-white shores of Seaview, Alabama. It was something they could afford, which was the biggest incentive, but also close enough to the kind of life they were all used to, except without all the hard edges and rough parts that made up the everyday. And that was what they really needed, after the past year – which, Scarlett’s nomination aside, had been pretty fuckin’ awful for most of them.

The water is calm today, the air smelling like sun and salt. His face feels stiff with sunburn, and tomorrow he knows his shoulders will be aching, just like his back and neck. Damn, he really is one big red mess.

Though not, he thinks with a smile, as bad as Scarlett. She is the only person who endured the sun worse than he has. This trip has really turned her into her namesake, much to her torment – her entire back is burnt, her face beet red, and she’s been moaning about how she’ll have to spend the next six months sleeping on her stomach. The best thing it’s done for her is make her eyes change colors – out here they’ve become the same rough color of the sea, more green than blue, and they seem wider than ever, if that’s actually possible. She’s walking along the shoreline in a cover-up that still won’t keep her from burning, letting her white legs disappear into the foam of the tide while she occasionally picks a seashell from the murky sand.

Gunnar, of course, has managed better than all of them. His already-tan skin has turned even darker in the sun, his eyes turning from green to brown to almost black depending on the light. He’s long and lean and ropey in the water, playing a game of Frisbee with Zoey, whose curls are doing a wild tango in the salty ocean wind. She’s laughing as Gunnar goes in for a catch, side-diving into the surf before sputtering back to the surface, proudly clutching the yellow Frisbee in his hand.

Last night he and Gunnar worked on a song together, sitting on the back patio while Scarlett commiserated about the sorry state of her milky skin in between trying to harmonize with them and Zoey rubbing aloe on her shoulders, trying to soothe the burn. They could only bring Will’s guitar because it’s all they could fit in the backseat, but he and Gunnar passed it between the two of them, and eventually he surrendered it to Gunnar completely while he watched him spin out a melody and Zoey hurried to type the lyrics into her cell phone. They have no paper at the house, except for napkins and paper towels. Yesterday morning, a rhyme came to Will that he thought was too good to pass up, so he fished into his trashcan and pulled out the receipt from yesterday’s trip to the Piggly-Wiggly, scribbling the words onto the crumpled back before folding it neatly into his wallet. Can never be too picky.

He tries not to let himself think about how it’s the first time he’s tried to write in almost a year. Tries even harder to forget that it’s only been a few months since he started picking up his guitar again, or even singing at all. He doesn’t like to let himself think about it, or try to think about what it means. Nothing good ever comes from thinking too hard, he’s learned.

He’s playing again. He’s playing, and it doesn’t hurt – or at least, he’s come to the point where the only thing that hurts worse than playing music these days is _not_ playing music.

So he plays.

Too bad they couldn’t bring Deacon on their vacation, even if they were only half-serious about inviting him. He could have used the vacation, said he was jealous when he found out they were taking a week off to go party on the beach and he was stuck in a doctor’s office. But he’d been busier than ever since he started working as a producer for Highway 65. He’d been working with that Avery kid a few months back, working on demos for people trying to get signed, until Rayna had caught wind of what he was doing and asked him to join her label. So these days, the only two places you could ever find Deacon were the studio or his physical therapist’s. Taking a week off was too much for him to sacrifice.

Right now, Deacon was working on one of Rayna’s newest acts. Scarlett had met him at a label meeting a while back, and Will had seen ads for him performing around town. It was that boy from California. San Diego. With surfer hair and perfect skin, shiny teeth and shells for a necklace. Doesn’t wear boots or flannel. Will caught him on the TV a few months ago, at some CMT “Behind The Scenes” look at up-and-comers. Thought the kid looked fourteen, under all the make-up and stage lights, but apparently he was twenty-one. Just old enough to get into bars without needing a fake.

Jesus, where are they _finding_ these people. All the sheen and shimmer, like lip gloss on preteen girls. The beer-and-pick-up-truck songs had gone out of vogue a year or two ago, thank God, but now they’d been replaced, as every fad was, by something else. Now, whenever the radio came on, it sounded like glitter and synthesizers, sparkle and glimmer and soft, muted colors – like a butterfly. And with it, a new wave of shiny happy people to sing them. Gone were the fake outlaws with the boots from downtown, but Will didn’t know what was worse.

(Though he figures, if he had to answer, the Devil he knows…that’s the phrase, right?)

The thing that kills him – and the irony no one talks about, because they don’t want to open that can of worms – is that these guys, they all look like…like people like him. Or what people _think_ people like him are supposed to look like, as if they all have branding tattoos somewhere. This kind of look was something that everyone used to shut their doors on in Music City, because everyone assumed. And he knew assuming was almost as bad as _being_ – either way, it meant you could kiss your chances goodbye.

 He knows a thing (or ten) about that.

It’s something he can’t make himself stop thinking about, whenever he sees that kid’s face on a billboard, or sees someone like him performing at the Bluebird, or hears one of those songs on the radio. It’s something that he can’t get out of his head.

Who knows what things would have been like, had everything fallen apart a little later than it had. Things completely spun out of control just a few months, maybe even weeks after they managed to. If he’d been exposed, forced to come out just a little bit later…

Who knows what could have happened. How things might have ended. A different story than the past eleven months, possibly.

Maybe there wouldn’t have been a scandal, a story. Maybe he wouldn’t have lost everything – his record deal, his tour spot with Juliette. His privacy, his future. Brent.

Maybe there wouldn’t have been a gun.

He can’t dwell on that, though. He shakes his head, trying to get the thoughts away, like water out of his ears.

Doesn’t do any good to dwell. Scarlett’s told him this, over and over. Zoey, too, and when neither of them could talk sense into him, Deacon sat him down and had one of those “talks”, the kind that always made Will feel like a fool for letting his thoughts go there.

Sometimes they ended in yelling, sometimes in smashing things around, sometimes with Will storming out and driving for hours – like the night he sped down the infamous Wilson Pike at two in the morning, blowing through stoplights and swerving around the curves without slowing down, like he was waiting to get run off the road into one of those ditches and break his neck.

That had been, what, three or four months after that reporter had outed him? Racing down the road with his eyes half-shut, wondering if the next mile would bring the moment when his little bike went airborne, sent him flying through the night air and smashing to the concrete, breaking the last of his sorry, pathetic, already-broken self all over the street until he was nothing more than a smear on the pavement?

But it never happened.

He always came back. Just like had that night, when the thirteen curves of Wilson Pike hadn’t killed him. When, for some reason he still didn’t understand, he’d been spared.

Again.

Times like that, he came home sometimes to a crying Scarlett or a pissed off Zoey, always to an angry Deacon. But, Will eventually learned, it wasn’t the kind of anger that was filled with hate, or self-righteousness. It was the kind that came from someone who actually gave a shit about you; actually cared whether or not you lived or died.

By the time he finally got to wrapping his head around that, he reflected bitterly that no _wonder_ it took him so fucking long to figure that out. On a good day, Will could count the people who actually gave a shit about him on less than one hand.

The talks Deacon had with him, they meant someone cared. Someone who knew what he was, and still liked him – wasn’t disgusted by him, didn’t hate him or think he was wrong, broken inside. They were never the kind that ended in Will being thrown out of a pick-up truck in the middle of the night and left in the desert to disappear. Like he was some kind of…diseased animal no one wanted to go near.

Across the beach, Scarlett laughs. Gunnar races through the water, lifts her onto his shoulders. Spins her around, some kind of water angel with gold curls, and then dips her into the surf, kissing her while she laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

If Will had learned anything over the past eleven months, it was that it didn’t matter how MANY people he had that cared. Just that he had them.

Scarlett, who can spin words in a way he could never dream of. Gunnar, his first real friend; his ballads about the stars and lost cowboys, their accidental kiss, the song he wrote when he knew Will was going to pull through; the first time someone saved him. Zoey and her no-nonsense approach, forcing him to get out and face the world, even when he thought he couldn’t. Deacon, who picks out tunes of hardscrabble victories and falling in the dirt, letting Will drink up every note and every syllable and imagine that he’s able to do that, like he could actually pick himself off the ground and be able to make sense of this life, put things back together. Maybe have an answer for what his dad, but who is he kidding. Will doesn’t even know most of the questions. Never has. More than likely, never will.

Zoey dodges for one of Scarlett’s inexpert Frisbee tosses, and misses it by about a mile. Gunnar laughs, and then picks up Scarlett and twirls her in the tide while the water froths around them.

They could stay here. Rent the house permanently. Live on the edge of the ocean, write songs framed by the tides and the soft rolls of the sand dunes, the breeze from the water and the tang of salt in the air. Swim in water warmed directly by the sun, let the tides wash them and clean them and soothe them.

He shakes his head. No. They’d all drive each other crazy. They’d all miss Nashville way too much. Even him. Especially him.

It’s just a silly dream. A nice one, however silly. It would just be nice to keep that little fantasy, while he’s here at the end of the world, staring at the tides do something they’ve done since before he can even begin to imagine. Here with people who know him and understand, who let him stop being the Showman and let him just be Will. Even if he isn’t entirely sure what that means yet, and neither do they, but he’s working on it and they all know this and treat it like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

**II.**

Gunnar shares a room with him now, sleeping ten feet away from him on the other bunk, because Scarlett’s burns hurt too much and she kept moving around last night, keeping him awake. He left her in the bigger bed to get some peace; he said that her entire body felt like sleeping next to a furnace, too hot in the un-air-conditioned bedrooms. They sleep without shirts, without much of anything.

Sometimes Will finds himself staring at the nut-brown tone of Gunnar’s skin, the sharp needles of his eyelashes as they twitch in his sleep. He finds his eyes tracing the firm line of his friend’s dark shoulders and can’t help it, even if it makes him feel a little sick and a little good and a little too warm all at once. Whenever he feels like that, Will turns away and stares at the whiteness of the wall, letting its blandness take his mind off of everything.

When that doesn’t work, he ducks into the bathroom to jack off in silence, closing his eyes while he comes with a gasp he muffles into his shoulder. Afterward, he cleans off his hands, wipes his eyes dry. They’ll look red from the sun, just like all of them do these days.

The bathroom’s little mirror is dirty, the glass streaked, the water tinny and lukewarm. It smells like salt, even though it’s tap water. Everything here has the same smell to it, the ocean seeping into the fabric of their bedsheets and the stale air in the unopened cabinets.

He walks out of the tiny bathroom and into the main living area, the small kitchen with the gas stove and the tattered couch and the screen door that bangs no matter how slight the breeze. The tile is stained and the tabletops are sweaty and pockmarked, but the windows look right out on the ocean, and you can’t beat that view for anything – the night is cool enough to where the smell of sand and honeysuckle drifts in through the windows, the dark water lapping up the white shores, moonlight dripping through the clouds and the tide sounding like the world is humming itself to sleep.

There’s footsteps behind him, and out of the corner of his eye he sees a small shape step behind him. He whirls around, and Scarlett hobbles into the kitchen.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “Did I spook ya?”

He shakes his head. “Nah. What’re you doin’ up?”

She pulls her robe more tightly around her, and winces. “These damn burns are killin’ me. I keep tossin’ and turnin’, and just can’t get comfortable.” She sighs. “No wonder Gunnar doesn’t want to sleep with me. I can’t even sleep with myself, with all the hurtin’ and movin’ around.”

“Sit down,” he says, and there’s a grin teasing his lips because poor Scarlett, she’s just so miserable, and it shouldn’t be funny but it is. “I’ll make you some of that herbal shit you like so much.”

Sunburned as she is, she looks up at him through the sweaty fringe of her bangs and mutters, “Language.”

“Sorry.” He warms the water on the stovetop, about where his entire knowledge of cooking begins and ends. Good thing he’s watched Scarlett make this a million times.

Scarlett props her head up on her arm at the sticky tabletop, red eyelids drooping, looking like she’s ready to fall asleep right there against the wall, covered with a faded sand dollar pattern.

He smiles at her. “Ya gonna stay awake long enough for that water to boil?”

She smiles, but the expression slides on her face like its seasick.

“Don’t blame yourself if I doze off,” she murmurs. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Yeah,” he says. “Gunnar told me. I know I burn easily, but damn girl, you are the Red Lobster.”

She laughs, but it turns into a wince. “I know Zoey’s tryin’ to help with all that aloe, but so far all it’s done is make my skin real itchy.”

“Wait still it starts to peel,” he says, grinning. “That’s the fun part.”

She closes her eyes. “Oh, please, no. That’s disgustin’.”

“The only thing I know makes it feel better is a wet washcloth,” he says. “Other than that, you just have to deal with it. Like allergies.”

“I thought you could tell me something a little more encouraging,” she says, brushing her hair away.

He grins. “Sorry. Don’t have a miracle cure. Just been enough sunburned enough times to know the drill.”

“Did you go to the beach a lot when you were little? I mean, with your family?”

His hands stiffen over the stovetop, hand pausing over the steam.

“Never really had vacations,” he says, when he finally unsticks his throat. “We didn’t have a lot of money, and my dad didn’t trust leaving the ranch with anyone…”

“You guys had a ranch?” Scarlett sits up, yawns. “I didn’t know that.”

Will pauses, clearing his throat.

“Yeah,” he says. “In, uh, in Amarillo. Been in my family since my great-grandad owned it.”

He clamps his mouth shut, grinding his jaw. He hadn’t said much of anything, and already it feels like he said too much.

He stares at the rising steam, but can feel Scarlett’s eyes on his backside.

“You never talk about your family,” she says quietly.

He keeps his back to her. Focuses on the blue flames underneath the tarnished metal pot, the crackle of the fire and the smell of the gas and the bubble of water coming to a boil.

“Not much to tell,” he says, when he’s been quiet for too long.

He stares hard into that blue flame, and Scarlett doesn’t ask any more questions. Probably sensing he isn’t going to give her any answers.

 “What about you?” he asks. Always safer, to turn the questions around. People love to talk about themselves. Even people like Scarlett, who seem immune to being selfish. “Did you ever go to the beach?”

She shakes her head. “No. We lived in Mississippi my whole life. I’d never been thirty miles outside of my hometown until I moved to Nashville with Avery.”

“Seriously?” He raises an eyebrow at her. “You gotta get out more, girl.”

She half-shrugs, half-smiles. “Yeah. S’what Gunnar keeps insisting.”

Then she smirks. “Course, he’s never been anywhere else ‘cept Texas and Tennessee, so what does he know.”

That half-smile is still on her face. Will scans the cupboards and wonders where she thinks Gunnar thinks she ought to go. Then figures, if Scarlett’s career really takes off like everyone (except her) thinks it will, she’ll end up going to the moon and back. The whole world will carpet her footsteps. Nashville, Seaview, their old little house at 14 Clayton Street that the three of them shared, before anything happened…all of it will fade from her, in the glow of the neon and stage lights.

His hands shake only a little, as he pours her the tea. She doesn’t seem to notice as she takes it gratefully, sipping it in the quiet shadows and the sound of the waves outside.

Will’s eyes look towards the water, the black waves and the dark foam and the pure white of the dunes under the moonlight. He’d been to Galveston a few times with his family, when he was a kid. It wasn’t the soft sand of the Alabama shore, didn’t have the same savory, salty taste of water in the air and the tickle of sea grass on his ankles as he made his way towards the churning waters. He remembers being in their old family station wagon as they drove down the highway, looking at the blue-grey expanse, separated from the road by a single wooden railing that seemed to stretch on forever, the smell of tar and smoke and sand. 

He shuts his eyes. Tries to forget.

He focuses instead on the cloudy sky above the water. He wonders what everyone’s doing in Nashville tomorrow morning, while the days here seem so carefree and endless, free of responsibility and the last eleven months. Then realizes, “everyone” probably just means Deacon. The people who make up Will’s “everyone” now are all right here in this little house, sitting under stucco and white clapboard on the edge of the world while the wind picks up and moonlight glitters off the ripples of the waves.

The knowledge that he has a very small list of people he loves and trusts with everything he is – especially now – comes flooding back. He stares at the dark lull of the water. The ocean is suddenly very, very big.

He’s not sure what they all make, the whole of them. A CMA nominee, a bartender, a preacher’s daughter…an old drunk, if he counts Deacon (which he probably should)…it’s all like some weird sitcom nobody wants to watch.

And then there’s him.

Just…him. A Will.  Whatever he is. And how can there be a category for something that has no name?

“Will?”

His head jerks up. He forgot she was there, for a minute.

“You okay?” she asks. “You look like you went away for a second.”

He tries to smile.

“Yeah,” he says, laughing a little. “Just…tired, is all.”

“You don’t have to stay up with me,” she says. “If you wanna go back to bed…”

“Nah, I’m good.” He doesn’t think he’ll sleep any better in that cramped little room with Gunnar. No air, no smell of the sea, no wind or sun from the east.

Scarlett smiles at him, then stares at her arms, already starting to peel.

“I hope these burns fade before I have to go onstage again,” she says.

“You mean,” Will says wryly, “before the CMAs?”

He drags out each letter, teasing her, but Scarlett looks down at her coffee cup, gripping her hands around it.

“You know I’ve got about as much chance of winning that thing as Deacon does of bein’ Miss America,” she says.

He shakes his head, pointing a finger at her. “I thought we told you no more of that negative stuff. Come on, girl! You were nominated for a freaking CMA! I mean, what more do you need to get excited!”

“I AM excited!” Scarlett argues. “I’m just…” she throws her hands up. “Being realistic. You know who I’m up against…”

“And none of them can write a song like you,” he says firmly, narrowing his eyes at her. “Even if you don’t win.”

“Which I won’t,” she says. “I mean, between Rayna and Juliette, and Martina McBride…and forget about even mentioning Taylor Swift, because she’s basically a shoe-in...”

“All of them are big girls,” Will says. “ ‘specially Rayna and Juliette. They can take the wound to their egos.”

(Well, maybe not Juliette, he amends, but Will keeps that much to himself.)

Scarlett sighs.

“I’m just sayin’,” she says stiffly, looking into her tea, “better not count your chickens, and all.”

She looks away, staring at her bare feet on the stained tile floor. Will busies himself with rinsing out the pot under the sink faucet.

Scarlett’s already washed most of what little kitchen stuff they brought with them – a few forks and spoons, the containers she had packed in the cooler, some coffee cups. Will rinses the pot out, sets it back in the drawer above where they’ve kept their Ziploc bag filled with utensils. He pauses when he sees the hilt of a knife underneath the clear plastic. He can’t help staring at it for a moment.

He remembers the first few weeks he lived with her and Deacon, after they let him out of the hospital. How she got rid of all the kitchen knives before he first came home; he remembers trying to make a sandwich, and having to spread mayo with the back of a spoon. She didn’t stop there, either; Scarlett also took out all the shaving razors, made Deacon hide his, and kept any medicines locked up in her bedroom. Even got rid of any belts, scarves, those girly little wrap-things that she wore around her shoulders come winter.

He wondered if she made everyone get rid of their shoelaces, their dental floss. If she checked his bags when he wasn’t home, looking for that gun.

The knife gleams at him. He stares, then turns his head away quickly, swallowing.

 “You never told me what you were doin’ up this late,” Scarlett says.

Will shrugs. He turns away from the knife, tries to make it look like he didn’t see it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says.

“Got a song in your head?” A small smile creeps onto her face. “That always keeps me awake. Even if it’s just a melody, no words, just that tune. It’s frustrating.”

“No. I just couldn’t sleep.” He shakes his head, runs his hands through his hair. It’s gotten longer in the past few months, curling at the nape of his neck. Zoey took the scissors to it a few weeks ago, trimming off the scraggly bits and the matted fringe that hung in his eyes, but it’s still longer than he likes. After snipping away a few loose bits, she’d joked that it looked like he was trying to impersonate a 2006-era Dierks Bentley, with that massive curly mop.

Still, much as it doesn’t suit him, it’s easier to keep it this length – his hair turns darker the longer it gets, and it’s harder for people to recognize him this way. He doesn’t get stared at as much anymore when he walks down the street, goes grocery shopping with Scarlett, eats lunch downtown with Gunnar.

Will stares out the window. “I can’t remember the last time I wrote.”

“You were writin’ yesterday,” she tells him. “I heard y’all. You and Gunnar sounded great. Was that a new song?”

“Sort of,” he says. “It’s mostly Gunnar’s, anyway.”

“Still,” Scarlett says. “Sounded like it was really comin’ along.”

Will doesn’t look at her. “Maybe. That’s mostly Gunnar’s department, though. He’s the songwriter.”

He tries to flash her that charming smile, the one that used to get him anything he wanted. “I’m just the guy who sings ‘em.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” she says. “I was there, you know. I saw what was goin’ on.”

 “It was just messin’ around,” he mumbles. “Nothing big.”

Will shrugs one shoulder. He snatches her empty cup from her and looks away.

“I don’t know why you keep tellin’ yourself that,” Scarlett says, when he turns his back to her.

He busies himself rinsing out the mug.

 “What?” he asks.

Scarlett pauses. “That you’re not an artist.”

Will’s hand stills under the water. The lukewarm trickle falls through his fingers, pools in the middle of his palm.

 “It was nice to hear you singin’ again,” Scarlett says, after a moment.

Will lets the silver water circle the drain.

 “It’s just singin’,” he says. “I was never like you n’ Gunnar. You know. The whole package, and all.”

Will takes a breath; his voice sounds too brittle. He can’t look at her, so he looks out at the sea. Watches it rise and fall like a breath, steady and even against the bone-white shore.

Scarlett’s head snaps up.

“You stop that,” she says, her voice hard. “That’s a lot of crap, and you know it. You didn’t get a record deal with Rayna James for nothin’. You didn’t get a tour with Juliette Barnes for nothin’. I don’t know where you got it in your head that you’re not an artist, but that stops. Like, right now.”

She frowns. “Everything that happened doesn’t erase talent.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“See,” he says, “you can say that. Miss CMA Songwriter.”

As soon as he says it, he feels horrible, and his stomach sinks when he sees the look on her face. She doesn’t cry, but her eyes get wider and wider, until she looks down at the table, biting her lips, her shoulders tense.

“Shit,” he says. “Shit, Scarlett, I’m sorry, I’m so…I didn’t fuckin’ mean that, god I’m sorry, I swear…”

 “You don’t have to…” she says, then stops. She takes a deep breath, then looks up at him, and even though her eyes are dry her face breaks his heart and makes him feel like shit for that comment all over again.

You must resent me so much,” she whispers. “For just…havin’ all this.”

He stares at the ground, gripping the table, feeling like an asshole. It’s not Scarlett’s fault she’s in this position. Being a jerk to one of the few people in his life who actually gives a shit about him isn’t going to change that.

“I don’t,” he says, stomach sinking.

Scarlett runs her hands through her hair.

“I wouldn’t blame you for it,” she says. “If you did. I mean, how can anybody NOT resent me for everything? After the year we all had…”

 “Trust me,” Will says. “The one thing that could actually make up for this year is you winnin’ that CMA. Standing on that stage, where you belong, surrounded by all these people who know just how amazing you are…”

Scarlett shakes her head.

“You _have to_ resent me for all of this,” she mumbles. “I don’t see how you couldn’t. Everyone else does.”

“Who’s everyone?” Will asks.

Scarlett gestures vaguely.

“Everyone who wanted this,” she says. “People like you, and Gunnar, and Juliette and Layla Grant…you all worked so hard to get what you wanted, and I just…walked into it. And it’s not like I even wanted it right away or anything. I spent so much of last year goin’ back and forth, back and forth…” She props her head up in her hands on the tabletop. “Meanwhile, everyone we know would kill to be in this situation. And here I am, runnin’ around like a chicken with its head cut off, not knowin’ where the hell to go next.”

She looks away, staring at the dark ocean water, the moon on the waves; the shadow of the palms and the sea grass, swaying in the salty water wind.

 “I used to just write little poems, you know?” she murmurs. “I never even put them to music. I just wrote it down. I’d sing into kitchen spoons and whisks. Like I was some teenager, singing in her bedroom mirror. And then everything just happened at once.” She closes her eyes, takes a breath. “I just…fell into this life. I never really wanted it, not like Gunnar or Avery always did.”

Then, softly, she adds, “Not like you did.”

She meets his eyes finally, wide and almost afraid.

Will reaches across the table, takes her hands in his. He can close her entire fist inside his own; her fingernails scrape his calloused palms.

It reminds him of that hospital. Those long nights in that overbright, antiseptic room, the scratchy sheets, the drugs and needles being jammed into his arms. The cold that felt like part of his blood, in some place he couldn’t ever get warm.

Scarlett holding his hand at his bedside, praying for him when she thought he was still asleep. Whispering under her breath, gripping his frozen fingers, sometimes reaching her warm hand out to touch his cheek, stroke his forehead.

He remembers Zoey, leaning against the wall, arms wrapped around her body like she was trying to hug herself together. He remembers Gunnar, asleep against the wall in a plastic-backed hospital chair, a cup of cold coffee at his side and still in the clothes he’d been wearing almost two days straight, because he didn’t go home to change.

He remembers staying awake all night, staring at that gun. Propelled by some dark, insane curiosity.

The muzzle, staring right back at him. This was the last thing some people ever saw, felt, or knew.

He remembers putting it to his temple, finger flirting with the trigger. The gun had been loaded, safety off.

But most of all, he remembers Scarlett. Holding his hand and praying. Holding his hand in her own small, soft one, stroking the skin on his rough palm. Sometimes humming, sometimes crying, mostly silent, but always there, always holding his hand. Hanging onto him, refusing to let go.

 “I’m sorry I didn’t better care of you,” Scarlett murmurs. She’s staring at their hands intertwined. “At Edgehill.”

Will can see the tears in her eyes now. His own throat bricks shut, and it’s hard to take a breath.

“You always took care of me,” she says. “Standing up to Jeff, to Layla, always braggin’ about me to the press, tellin’ them how great I was…”

Scarlett wipes her eyes dry with the back of her hand. “You always had my back.”

Then she looks at the table, traces the sweaty surface with the tip of her finger.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have yours,” she whispers.

He squeezes her hand tightly. Like she did, when he was in that hospital bed.

“You did,” he says. His voice is tight. “You always did.”

**III.**

Scarlett’s gone back to her bedroom, wincing and shuffling her burned, aching body back to the master bedroom. But not before wrapping her arms around him for a hug, rocking against him and then reaching up on her toes to kiss his forehead. Like he’s four, and smaller than she is; a little kid getting a goodnight kiss to keep the nightmares away. But he doesn’t mind, because it feels gentle, safe, and he can’t remember the last time someone wanted to touch him that way, ever. He doesn’t hug her back – doesn’t want to aggravate her sunburn – but he squeezes her shoulder, and she smiles like she understands what he’s trying to say, even though he’s not really sure she could.

He does try, though.

“You’re gonna win,” he whispers in her ear, when she reaches up to hug him.

 She hangs onto him for a moment, and they sway in the hallway, while the sea groans and the walls creak in tune.

“Really,” he says. “You’re gonna win this.”

She shrugs one shoulder.

“I just feel like,” she murmurs, “so much bad’s happened, and now I got all this good all of a sudden, and everyone else deserves some kind of a break.” She shakes her head. “Just doesn’t seem fair.”

A small smile can’t help but creeping onto Will’s face. Scarlett really _is_ the only person who would feel bad about being in this situation. But this kind of thing is exactly what Will loves about her.

 “Have you talked to Gunnar about any of this?” he asks.

She shakes her head. “Trust me. That’s the last thing I want to do. I don’t want him to get mad at me for havin’ something everyone we know would kill for.”

Will has to keep himself from flinching; the words feel a little too familiar. He wants to say _Gunnar loves you, he won’t let his own life get in the way_ or _pretty sure he’d support you through anything_ or even _he cares about you_ , because it all sounds fake and cheesy and he’s not even really sure what Gunnar would think, because Will’s been wrong about that so many times. And it’s not like he’s some expert on couples, or relationships, or anything about love.

“Still,” he says. “You’re gonna win. You earned it. Hell, you earned it ten times over. The CMAs won’t know what hit ‘em.”

Scarlett smiles, for real this time. Squeezes him tightly, and he gently puts his arms around her shoulders, trying hard not to touch her burned skin. Scarlett may be tiny, but she’s a lot stronger than people think she is just by looking at her.

He would know.

He goes back to the room he’s sharing with Gunnar. Slides into his own rumpled bed, lies on his back and stares at the whirling ceiling fan. The roar of the sea outside sounds like a dull thud from here. He smells salt in the air.

After a moment of lying on top of the covers with his eyes closed, he gets up out of bed and pokes Gunnar with the heel of his hand.

“Hey Shithead,” he says. “Hey. Get up and go sleep with your girlfriend.”

Gunnar rolls over on his stomach, burying his face in the pillow.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles. He’s such a cranky girl when you try to wake him up.

Which Will knows very well, so instead of trying to be gentle he yanks the sheets off and smacks him upside the head.

“Oww!” Gunnar hollers, turning over and swatting at him. “Jesus Christ, man, I’m tryin’ to sleep!”

“So do it somewhere else,” Will says. “Like in the other room. With your girlfriend.”

When Gunnar turns over in the sheets again, Will sighs. “Come on, man. Scarlett really needs you.”

“How the hell do you know?” Gunnar mumbles.

“Because I just talked to her. And it’ll be better if she hears it from you.”

Gunnar groans, but he’s getting up, slowly.

“What’d she say?” he asks blearily.

“It’ll make a lot more sense comin’ from her,” Will says. “Go on. Get up and get your ass in there. Be with your girl.”

Gunnar runs his hands through his hair, pushes himself off the bed, and shuffles towards the door, still half-asleep.

“I’ma get you for this in the mornin’,” he mutters on his way out.

Will throws a pillow at Gunnar’s tall, retreating backside.

“You’re gonna thank me in the mornin’,” he calls.

The bedroom door slams. From down the hall, another one opens, and then closes, much more quietly. Gunnar’s footsteps fade, then disappear completely. And Will’s left alone in the dark little room, surrounded by shadows and the sound of the waves, the smell of sand and night wind and wet clothes. He lies down, closes his eyes.

Outside, the ocean shushes him.

**IV.**

They all sleep till past eleven, and Will’s the first one awake, at almost noon. He doesn’t bother putting real clothes on, just picks up yesterday’s swim trunks off the bathroom door where they hung out to dry – not too well, he notices, when he slides the damp bathing suit on and winces at the slimy cold of them on his bare skin – before grabbing his guitar and heading out back to the porch. The window across from him is the room Gunnar and Scarlett are still sleeping in, so he plucks carefully, trying not to wake them.

Deacon had given him this guitar for his birthday a few months back – which Will hadn’t even told anybody about, not wanting them to feel like they had to make a big deal about it. He didn’t even want to celebrate it, anyway. He hadn’t for years.

But somehow, Scarlett had found out, and insisted on fixing a dinner for him and the people in their group. She’d even invited Layla, and when she’d showed up, it had pleased Will way more than he ever thought it could. The more time they’d spent together on Juliette’s tour in their fake relationship, the more he’d realized she wasn’t as awful as she seemed. She got a lot easier to be around, once they were on the road – and once he set the record straight about him and Scarlett. Will found he actually liked her company on the bus – she was funny, suckered him into watching terrible TV shows while they were trapped on that damn bus for hours on end, and enlisted the whole band in pulling pranks on him when he was onstage. In turn, he took her to her first-ever George Strait concert when they were on a tour break in San Antonio, taught her how to play guitar, put salt in her morning coffee and hid her dry towels when she was in the shower. It was a surprise to him, how much he ended up liking her.

Deacon’s guitar, though, had upstaged even Layla showing up as the biggest surprise of the night. Right off the bat, Will knew he was looking at an insanely expensive instrument, the kind he could never have dreamed of owning even if he _had_ actually become the next Luke Wheeler. It probably cost more than a Belle Meade mansion – he didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone play a guitar so costly, never mind actually playing one himself.

“Hell,” Deacon had said, when Will had tried to protest, “I own the damn store, might as well put that to use. What the hell else good m’ I doin’ if I don’t get to put great guitars in the hands of great musicians.”

“Plus,” he’d added, “It’s used, so that made it a little cheaper.”

Will hadn’t cared. It was the most expensive guitar he’d ever owned and it almost felt like a crime to play it, to even attempt to pluck the strings. Until he did, and it was practically a religious experience. The guitar made a deep, throaty blues strum, something he’d never worked with but quickly found he loved.

It took him a long time before he could play the guitar, after everything that had happened. He’d had moments where he’d pick one up and strum a few times, but he always ended up setting it back down, needing to walk away. For so long, it had hurt too much to even be able to tune it; it was like being gutted, being able to hear music and know he’d never be able to really love it the same way ever again.

It was Deacon who eventually talked him back into playing, talking some sense into him after months without picking out a chord. The man’s hand was still in ruins, the slings and painkillers and fancy doctors Juliette paid for only able to fix the initial damage; it’d never be back to the way it was, never be able to work the same way it used to. Deacon was getting better and better, but the truth was that he’d never be able to handle the rigors of a life as a touring musician, at least the way he was accustomed to. He had to restart, reconfigure; rediscover what he loved about music, and make it work around what little had left to work with now.

Will could relate.

The guitar is slightly out-of-tune. He fixes it, then plucks the same few notes over and over, letting the twang of the strings fade out. It’s drowned by the rush of the ocean, and lets his eyes drift to the empty beach.

Music had always been easier than people. It didn’t judge, it didn’t complain. It didn’t demand anything, except to be played. That’s what he liked about it – it didn’t ask any questions, didn’t care that he didn’t have answers. And it never abandoned him.

Then he’d found people. Gunnar and Scarlett and Zoey, and Deacon. And even Layla, slowly but surely. By the table that night, all of the people who made up his life, eating cake off each other’s plates and clinking beers together and staring jealously at his guitar. Then, later that night, singing along as Scarlett tried to play the piano, missing a few plinks here and there because she’d had a few more than usual. Gunnar trying to sing the lyrics but not being able to keep up with Scarlett jumping from song to song. Then Deacon kicked his niece off the bench, started playing the Oak Ridge Boys, and they’d all harmonized on “Elvira”. Layla didn’t know the words, but Will pulled them up on his phone for her, and she read them off while they sang.

He’d found people. And like music, they didn’t leave.

 “Didn’t think anybody else was awake.”

Will looks up. Zoey steps onto the porch with her bare feet, curls swept into a ponytail, holding a coffee cup. She takes the seat across from him, staring out at the deep blue of the water, the cloudless sky.

He picks a couple more notes. “Early birds, I guess,” he says, grinning at her.

“I’m gonna get another cup of coffee,” Zoey says. “You want one?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

She heads back inside, and Will strikes another chord. He hums the bridge, still a work in progress, but picks his way through the chorus and verse they already have. Zoey comes back and hands him a warm cup, and Will loves the way the stark jolt of strong black coffee wakes him up right away.

“Think you guys will be done with that song by the time we get home?” Zoey asks.

He shrugs, jerking his head towards the bedroom where Gunnar and Scarlett are still asleep. “Depends on if that one ever gets his ass out of bed. Helps me finish these lyrics.”

Zoey grins. Will turns back to the guitar, trying to remember the melody they’d been piecing together the night before. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can coax it out of these strings.


End file.
